


Rest your weary head

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Witcher, my only treasure [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22965487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: For you are mine and you are safe.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher, my only treasure [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650412
Comments: 2
Kudos: 124





	Rest your weary head

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to "the nose knows".
> 
> I say of sorts, because this is the kind of rambling my brain spouts after 2am

Geralt's tense, from the curl of his fingers and knuckles bled bone-white to the hunch of his shoulders and the rigid line of his spine. Like a bowstring stressed one too many times, all that muscled bulk coiled and ready to _snap_ , and the culprit? The splay of Jaskier's fingers, the breadth of his palms, hands laid flat and _firm_ on Geralt's skin, determined to work him into boneless clay, all his to mold at whim. He rubs oil into skin dry and cracked and scarred, pausing whenever Geralt twitches and jerks as Roach does when she spooks at a noise, humming wordless tunes under his breath to soothe the witcher back into compliance.

The problem, he reckons, is Geralt's self-imposed solitude. His flight from any of the finer delights in life. His every day spent trading in the currency of his fellows. For coin, his sword and skill. For respect, his life and legacy and every brutal kill throughout. For company, the promise of his body and the bragging rights of bedding a witcher. For rest... a mortal gamble, weighing the risk of lowering his guard and leaving himself vulnerable.

The existence of a witcher, he'd once said, is a brutal affair on the boundaries of nature's laws, a dance along the lines separating life from death, friend from foe, monster from human. Doom ever snapping at one's heels, one hesitation away from dropping the walls of a city and the condemnation of its inhabitants on his head. Outcast and cursed, undeserving of peace.

Jaskier was prompt to reply then it was utter bullshit, and he still thinks it now. Here is the world's best weapon forged in the flesh of a man, a survivor against countless horrors and lifetimes and savagery, a sentry for all of humanity positioned where dusk meets dawn, haloed in light and coveted by shadow. Here is a human struck down to the bare bones and remade, someone stronger and faster, a brute to be certain and yet! It is not his soul to be cruel, no, not even in defense of himself.

"Relax," he says on a soft breath, stretching atop Geralt so he can slide his hands down his shoulders, his arms, so he can lay his hands over Geralt's and fit fingers between his, folding into a clasp and gentle squeeze. "Relax, I've got you."

Geralt doesn't, not at first, not until Jaskier turns his head so he can feel the cool twist of freshly washed hair bound and braided out of the way, press a kiss to the delicate skin just behind Geralt's ear and nuzzle his way down to bared throat and the hidden pulse there. If he Shifted now, altered his teeth and jaws to those of the dragon slumbering within, a bite here could kill. A fact they both know, a fact Geralt should be reacting to, bolting up and around to grab Jaskier by the neck, wrestling for control and submission, perhaps even bodily throwing him into a wall. Instead there is trust, fought for and _won_ despite the witcher's reluctance, stoked and tended as their campfire at night.

"Relax," Jaskier repeats, settling so Geralt has no choice but to take his weight and slowly, so slowly, muscles loosen and Geralt sinks into the bed. "Let me take care of you," he says as he reaches for the oil again.

It's slow going, this process they have after a hunt. Geralt is too used to violence and trickery to be anything other than a challenge, and Jaskier is too patient to give a damn. So long as he has any say in the matter all Geralt will know under his hands is a lover's touch, gentle and tender and sweet. What better way to show it than a massage? What better way to say it than the kiss he lays on every scar he can reach? What better way to _share_ it than in pleasures of the flesh and whispers of endearment?

* * *

He cannot curl around him later, in the dead of night when they both should be sleeping, he's too small in this skin to do so. Not that it matters, an arm and leg thrown over his witcher does just the same as his tail would. _His_ witcher, all his, this singular person, this beautiful complexity of a man, Jaskier's only treasure, the sole focus of his hoard.

"I love you," he whispers, and gets a snort in response, muffled where Geralt has mashed his face into a sad, flat pillow.

" _Sleep_ , f'fuck's sake."

Irritable Geralt code for _I love you, too._

Jaskier's still smiling when he finally falls to slumber.


End file.
